


Venice

by resurrectedhippo



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Beach Sex, Consent Issues, Dark, Drug Use, Hand Jobs, Kinktober 2020, M/M, Trope Subversion/Inversion, pining and obsessive behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:22:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27105655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resurrectedhippo/pseuds/resurrectedhippo
Summary: “You’ll take care of me, won’t you? You said you’re a good man.”“I never said that I was good,” Steve whispers, giving into the urge to push Tony’s hair back. “You did. But yes, I’ll take care of you.”Steve really imagined their first meeting to be much more romantic, not trying to stop some guy from drugging Tony.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 21
Kudos: 102
Collections: Anti Soulmate Kinktober 2020





	Venice

**Author's Note:**

> This is somewhat a Meet-Cute subversion. Read the tags and proceed with caution. Could be read as non-powered 616 or MCU AU.
> 
> Kinktober Day 19: Sex Tape (a mention)
> 
> As always, thanks to [Alpine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_umbra_gratia) for the beta. <3

He hates Los Angeles.

There isn't a winter. Nevermind that he's only been here for five weeks. Summer is endless, but it's not like the blistering humidity of the East Coast in August. Los Angeles has a different life blood. It's multicultural, like New York, but the enclaves and villages are all spread out, unlike Manhattan, where you can walk two blocks and be in Harlem then in Morningside Heights. 

There's the Metro, but hardly anyone uses it. Steve does, just to see where it goes. It's even more inefficient than the subway lines in New York. Steve uses the money from his pension to purchase a decent car in a lot in his neighborhood and rent a studio room in Koreatown. There are bars on the windows of his apartment building but his neighbors are friendly, if not cautious with their warnings about race wars. He fought a war in another land, then he comes home to find there’s another one. 

Steve ducks into a restaurant down the street, eats the kimchi and orders some fried rice. Taking out his notebook, he sketches a photo of Tony Stark while waiting for his meal. He prepares for the evening, double checking his list of supplies. 

Steve hates Los Angeles, but he wouldn’t be here if not for Tony Stark. 

He hates driving. He drove a humvee in Desert Storm but at least there wasn't traffic. Los Angeles freeways are always backed up, anywhere he goes. Steve soon gives up and learns the side street routes that take him from Wilshire to Venice. It's a straight route from Washington Boulevard.

Steve hates the glamour of Beverly Hills, the large skyscrapers, then the endless homelessness that surround parts of Santa Monica. He hates, hates, hates. There’s so many things Steve has grown to despise, no longer seeing the world through the bright eyes of wanting to serve his country, do good things in the world. War teaches you that you pull the trigger not for freedom or democracy, but to serve as pawns of men in the Capitol. 

But then, there’s Tony. 

He moved all the way to Los Angeles for Tony. He upended his post-Army life to see him. Maybe, Tony will join him in New York. If not, Steve will learn to like Los Angeles. 

Steve has been tracking the target since he landed at the airport with a duffel bag, still in his army boots. No matter, Tony’s worth it. This is his second week scouting Venice, but no such luck. He’s posed at bars, walked the boardwalk, and attended parties until dawn. Sometimes, he ends up camped by the beach until the sun rises and the surfers come for the waves. It’s not like New York, no, not by a long shot.

* * *

He’s in Venice again, this time in jeans and a button-down shirt. He tried wearing sandals and shorts, the uniform of the common Los Angeles man, but it isn’t him. He’s resigned to sticking out. All his life, he wanted to be someone — not known by the world, not like Tony Stark. But he’s wanted to be someone who mattered. 

Steve walks the streets, keeping an ear out for house parties that Tony Stark is reported to attend. Just when he thought it would be another useless night, he wanders down the street and a man offers him some weed and a pack of smokes. “Looks like you could use it.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t smoke.”

The man shrugs, shoves the cigarettes in the front pocket of his t-shirt. “Your loss. There’s a party inside, if you wanna pass through. Rum, beer, some blow. Tony Stark fucking around with a toaster. If you’re into that shit.”

Steve’s heart beats faster. Tony, Tony, Tony. He clears his throat, relaxes into his body and wears an unassuming smile. “Does he usually come here?”

“He’s always wandering.” The man reaches for something on the porch. It’s a blunt; he blows the smoke to the side, and looks up at Steve, measuring. “You a cop?” 

“Someone should look after him,” he replies, falling on parade rest. He wants to storm into the house and make sure Tony’s alright, cared for. “Not a cop. Ex-military.”

“Ah,” the man chuckles and gives him a mocking salute. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to be insulted. “Thank you so very much for your service.” 

“Thank you for your support,” he says because he has nothing else to say. 

“Fuck it, feel free to go in.” The man grabs the longboard by the stairs and passes him. 

He’s not even sure if the man owns the house, much less lives there. But Steve takes it as permission to go inside anyway. He enters the foyer. The stereos blast some Santana song. He knows this one because a Private used to blast the CDs. He nods his head at the right beats, passing a group of dancing women. He sees it before he feels it—someone claps his shoulders. Their breath smells of cigars. They pass him a beer bottle. 

Steve walks further into the house. It’s a lovely home with nice wooden floors he’s only seen while working odd jobs and construction in the Upper East Side. There are large double doors that lead to a massive deck and then, further down is the gateway to the beach. It would be a dream to wake up here if the place isn’t littered with drunk people grinding on each other. A woman in a neon bathing suit winks at him before kissing the pierced woman beside her. He passes them without a word, too strung on _Tony, Tony, Tony._ He needs to find Tony. This place doesn’t look too safe, especially with drug-addled beach goers taking off their tops and bottoms, exchanging spit.

The song changes to something electronic. Steve’s never heard of it but people all around him start banging their heads and shuffling. Some man gets behind him, getting a hand on his hip. Just as Steve’s about to tell him off, a woman pushes them into the living room. It’s dim with light strobes, sweaty bodies all around him. There’s sand everywhere and it’s like he’s back shooting in the desert, chewing on tobacco, and cursing his unit. Steve pushes to the corner of the room, tracking the movements all around him. Some people are dancing barefoot and up on the second floor, there’s people passing a bong. 

Then, there’s Tony spinning on a barstool doing lines. He’s wearing a grin, but Steve knows better. Someone’s making him smile. Why else would Tony be here if he wasn’t under some sort of pressure? No, it’s better to eliminate the drug use, clean up his act. Someone needs to take care of Tony.

Tony’s shaking his head now, he’s got a hand over a woman’s shoulders. He snaps her tank top’s strap while she starts kissing his neck.

Steve stares. He doesn’t know what to do. He didn’t expect this—he thought—well—he thought he'd meet Tony Stark, they’d have a walk around the beach, talk about their respective lives. Then, maybe they’d grab a bite and Steve would tell Tony about his time in the Army. Then, maybe Tony might open up about his parent’s untimely death last year. Steve would ask, “How are you holding up? Is there anyone to support you?” But he wouldn’t say, _I could be that._ No, he doesn’t want to scare Tony away, it’s too soon for that. 

Instead, Steve will stay quiet and wait for Tony to explain. People usually did that. They start talking to fill the silence. Steve will wait forever if he has to. He’ll suggest that Tony stop partying so much. It isn’t any acceptable way to mourn. Maybe Steve could show him healthier ways to deal with grief? He’s experienced losing parents, too. He even watched his teammates in the Army get blown up and sometimes put bullets into their own heads. Steve has it all planned. They’ll share some burgers. Have a milkshake, then he’ll offer to walk Tony home. That’s it. No funny business.

A man with shaggy blond hair comes over, scrubs Tony in the head and offers another line. He’s built like those surfers paddling around the beach in the mornings. Steve could take him—twist his arm and shove him off. While Steve can't hear it due to the bass and the screaming all around him, he can see that they're all laughing. Tony shouldn’t be with them. They have a gleam in their eyes that speak of vultures.

Steve inches forward, recognizing the man. He leans over and kisses Tony’s temple. It’s disgusting. His lips are too thin and his teeth are uncharacteristically straight. Tony looks up at him, taps his arm, then leans over to snort a line. Tony comes back up and the woman grabs his face with these hot pink fingernails wiping at the blood on his nose. 

This is unacceptable. Steve’s researched the man—Tiberus Stone—in these past few weeks. He’s the son of a wealthy businessman and runs in the same circles as Tony Stark. He was in the sex tape with Tony.

God, when some of his unit spoke of Tony Stark’s sex tape, Steve confiscated the material, then proceeded to watch it in his quarters. It was the only thing that took his mind off the violence in the desert. Tony Stark’s naked flesh. His plump lips, bright eyes. It was easy to imagine himself in Stone’s position. Except, Steve wouldn’t be violent. He wouldn’t fuck Tony’s face and he sure as hell wouldn’t come all over his back. No, Steve would prefer to keep his semen inside Tony. He’d fuck it back in and lift his legs to check that none slips out. Stone was a menace in the video, a relentless twat who didn’t even jerk Tony off. 

Steve watched that stupid imported VHS every evening, rubbing himself raw. It was the one thing that let him live through the violence in the desert. It made him want to come back to base at night. There was a time when he got sloppy at work, where he questioned what the hell they were doing in another country, fighting a war for men who yell too much about democracy but don’t do anything about inequality on their own soil. Then, Tony Stark comes into his life, giving him this sense of salvation. 

It began as nothing. Just stress relief. Tony was his lifeline to the outside world. Steve appreciated that. Then, he read about Stark’s family history, the death of his parents, and how he was turning his father’s weapons company into something better—green energy, sustainability, medical instruments, affordable tech for the public. 

Steve read articles and interviews on Tony Stark’s vision for rebranding his father’s company into Stark Resilient. He’s the future of the world, no doubt. Tony needed someone who could make sure he could accomplish everything he ever dreamed about. Steve’s taken the liberty of tracking and conducting background checks on Stark Industries’ board members and his circle of friends. Stane was gunning for Tony’s CEO position. Steve would ensure that Stane would never get his dirty, bloody hands on Tony’s seat. He wanted to meet Tony and thank him for being Steve’s rock while deployed. 

He’d treat Tony better. Steve won’t be like Stone, Stane, and all those vultures who wanted to take away the fire in Tony’s eyes. Tony deserved the world and Steve would make sure he got it.

Steve has told himself that it’s acceptable to watch and protect Tony from a distance. Maybe he’d serve as a bodyguard or head of security. His military background makes him qualified. But… Steve’s also just a man and he’s not immune to daydreams.

The woman on Tony’s left makes another line and wipes her nose. She dances around them. But Tony’s content on just rocking to the beat on the stereos. He’s turning to Stone and pulling him for a messy kiss. They make out. Steve wants to look away, but he can’t because it’s Tony. Steve’s seen Stone fuck Tony many times, it’s seared into his brain. But this is different; it’s happening in real time and Steve can see Tony in the flesh, watch his throat work and the way his t-shirt pulls on his chest. Steve is breathless. He drowns his beer and stays in the corner watching them like a fool.

He’s just here to make sure Tony’s alright. Then, maybe he’ll introduce himself. Stone and the woman lean against Tony, light up a cigarette, and laugh. It’s vapid. This isn’t Tony Stark’s scene. No, the Tony Stark that Steve read about is a genius with a heart of gold. A genuinely good man. That’s hard to find these days. While Steve understands his grief, he disagrees with how long Tony’s partying life has been going. He’s afraid that Tony might spiral into full blown substance abuse.

The woman and Stone put a hand on Tony, trying to pull him onto the dance floor. But Tony waves them away, instead, spinning on his seat and drinking from a red plastic cup. Just as Steve is about to approach, another man in a suit walks to Tony and starts a conversation. Tony is seemingly annoyed, rolling his eyes and pulling away from the man. While everyone is prancing half-naked and still wet from the beach, this man looks out of place with his suit jacket and slicked-back hair.

And then, Steve sees it. The man leans against the counter, pointing at the party-goers on the deck, distracting Tony. He slips something into Tony’s cup and smiles. 

“Watch it, man,” someone laughs beside him. Steve doesn’t care. He pushes off, parting the dancing bodies, interrupting groups of people. He has tunnel vision. Some man is trying to roofie Tony. Steve needs to keep him safe. 

Steve circles the kitchen island and inserts himself between Tony and the seething man. 

“Excuse me,” the man points at himself and Tony. “We’re having a conversation and you’re interrupting. See yourself out.”

Steve steels himself, unlocks his jaw, puts his hands on parade rest, and tries to remain unassuming. He straights, then in the most commanding voice he could muster, he turns to Tony and says, “Mr. Stark, you don’t know me, but I just witnessed this man put something in your drink.”

“Really, Victor?” Tony deadpans, spins to face the man and proceeds to kick him on the shin. “I don’t want to fucking see your face, take a message. It’s never gonna happen.”

“Stark, you have a bodyguard at a party, really?” The man, Victor, sneers, then eyes Steve. “Fuck off.”

“It seems like I need it if people are going to be drugging me.” Tony takes his cup and spills its contents to the floor. He has no idea whose house this is and he doubts it’s Tony’s. He spills some of the beer on Victor’s loafers, too. “Get the hell out of my face.”

Victor leaves, then it’s just Steve and Tony.

He tries not to shift from feet to feet. It’s an old habit, usually done when he’s nervous. The military broke that out of him, but Steve feels like resorting to it now. He rubs at the back of his neck, then stuffs his hands into his pocket. Tony is looking at him up and down with a smile.

Steve feels seen. He didn’t think it would be like this. Steve really imagined their first meeting to be much more romantic, not trying to stop some guy from drugging Tony.

“Thanks,” Tony spins on the chair to fully face Steve. He puts a hand on his leg, then chin to hand. “You don’t seem like the type to be here.” 

He just did coke half an hour ago, but seems to have worn off. He’s not slurring, but his eyes are still dilated. Tony focuses on him so intensely, it’s confusing. Steve never thought he’d be the center of Tony’s attention.

“You’re welcome.” Steve shuffles his feet, lost. The music's too loud and it smells like sweat from the barracks. The double doors are open, but there’s no breeze to alleviate the heaviness of the smoke. “I was just passing through.”

“You wanna get out of here? You seem uncomfortable,” Tony throws a hand at him, then the rest of the room.

Someone bumps into him and Steve loses his balance for half a second. Tony has a hand on his elbow, catching his fall. Steve looks at Tony and he’s lost for words.

“Yeah, um,” there he goes again, scratching at his temple and being out of his depth. So, instead, Steve just goes for honesty. “I’ll head out. You’ll be alright?”

Tony hums, eyeing him for a beat, then seems to find something of approval. He hops from the chair. “I’ll walk you out.”

“You sure your boyfriend or girlfriend won’t mind?”

“Boyfriend?” Tony raises an eyebrow, pats his pockets, then leads Steve out to the dance floor. “Girlfriend?”

He tries to stay close to Tony, afraid to lose him as they pass through a throng of people. “Er, I saw you kiss someone at the party,” Steve says, yelling in case Tony doesn’t hear him. 

“Ty? Eh, we keep it casual, he’s probably already fucking Sunset as we speak.” Tony grabs his hand and doesn’t let it go until they're out into the sidewalk.

The man who let him into the entrance is back and on the porch, smoking again. He doesn’t even pay attention to Tony or Steve. 

“Okay,” Steve starts. He drops his gaze to his watch. It’s past one, but the party's still going hard. There’s a group of people milling around the streets, smoking and stomping on their cigarette butts. “Do you have a ride home?”

Tony stares at him for a moment, then laughs. “Shit. Did someone send you to look after me? Because I swear, I won’t drive drunk, I’ll find a place to crash or get a cab to drop me off to Malibu. My place isn’t too far.” He says the last line with a suggestive quality, but maybe Steve is just reading into things. 

“No,” Steve shakes his head. They face each other in the middle of the street. Outside, he can still hear the beat of a new song. The moon is up high, bearing down on this Los Angeles-esque nightlife like a drunken haze. It almost feels impossible that he’s standing face to face with Tony Stark. This man he’s dreamt about for months. He’s kept clippings of his accomplishments these last couple of years. Steve is proud of him and this future… whatever it may be. He hopes that Tony will say yes. Steve will do this right. He won’t be like Victor who tries to drug Tony, nor will he be like those vultures inside.

“Is it really appalling to do the right thing? I just saw someone try to hurt you and stepped in.”

“What a dream,” Tony pats his back pocket, fetching a pack of cigarettes. “You have a light?”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Damn,” he takes out the cigarette from his mouth and walks over to the group of people sitting on the streets and hands them the stick. He returns to Steve. “You know, people don’t usually do ‘the right thing,’ these days. At least with my experience.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve offers, wishing he could pull Tony close and tell him everything will be alright. One day, he might. “I’m assuming that’s not the first time someone tried to put something in your drink.”

“How’d you know?” Tony gives him a lazy grin. It’s forced. Steve doesn’t like it.

“The way you reacted.”

“It’s not,” he looks up at the sky, then back at Steve. “Haven’t seen you around here. I usually know all the dwellers by the beach.”

“I’m from New York.”

“Yeah? How’s it here?” 

Steve shrugs. “Grew up there. But it’s been a while since I went back. I was in the Army the last couple of years.”

“Oh,” Tony tilts his head. “Marines? You look like one.”

Steve tries not to blush. “Army. Captain.”

“Does the Captain have a name?”

“Does it matter?” Steve twists his hand. 

“It does to me. Besides, you already know my name.” 

He pauses for a moment. “Steve Rogers.” 

“Captain Rogers, huh?”

Steve nods. 

“Well, you look like a good man,” Tony smiles at him, and this time, it looks real, unlike all those staged photographs for the magazine, or the way he grinned for the camera while Stone spanked his ass and pulled on his hair. Tony is a dream and he deserves to be treated well. 

Tony is sunkissed. Steve can tell even if he doesn’t have his shirt off, even under the moonlight. His arms are tanned in an olive tone, and they’re toned, showing his hard work in the lab. Steve would know, he’s read all the articles on Tony Stark, even the ones from the gossip rag magazines. He even had his local library order articles Tony published. 

“I sure hope that’s true,” Steve says. “You see some things in war. It changes you.” 

“You’re different, I can tell.” They share a moment of silence. Tony’s too honest. It doesn’t do him well to be like this with people who might want something from him. He laughs again, the sound is light and airy. There’s a cool breeze now and the waves hit the shore. “God, I would kill for a chili spaghetti right now. Ever been to Big Boy’s? It's in Burbank. About 45 minutes away, double that during rush hour. Guess I gotta settle for the taco truck down the street. Wanna join me? It’s just past the boardwalk.”

“Wait, don’t you—are you sure you’re alright? Can we—” Steve looks around the area. There’s the night life from the parties down the block, and the streets are filled with drunken and drug-addled people, laughing and cursing. Some kid falls off a skateboard and lights a cigarette. Out in the distance, the beach is nearly empty, save for a couple of bonfires and couples. The area by the shoreline is empty, possibly because the waters are too cold at this time of night. Steve points to the distance. “Could we just sit for a second?”

Tony looks at him with something akin to concern. “You must be overwhelmed.”

“Not really,” Steve shakes his head, hands going to his pocket. “I just want to check on you. Make sure you’re really alright.”

“I’m really fine. This happens all the time,” Tony huffs. “That’s a little fucked, I guess.” 

Steve sees red and he’s overcome by this feeling of defiance and need to protect. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it, but Tony takes his fists, uncurls them, and squeezes them. He gives Steve a concerned look. “I’m good. I really am, don’t worry.”

“I’m appalled that you’re so nonchalant about this happening on a regular basis.” Steve says, not letting go of Tony’s fingers. He intertwines them, feeling bold and reckless. “You should stop hanging around here.”

“If you think partying around this area is such a bad thing, then why are you here?” Tony challenges with a raised eyebrow.

“I was looking for something—someone.”

“Did you find them?” Tony tilts his head. 

Steve doesn’t reply, instead, he leads Tony past the boardwalk. They circumvent the group of longboarders and chain smokers. When they get to the sand, Steve bends down to unlace Tony’s sneakers. He looks up to find Tony’s amused expression.

“You’re something else. Is this the type of thing they teach you in the Army?” Tony has his hands on his hips and he’s smiling and it makes Steve’s heart soar. “How to be a gentleman.”

“I’m no gentleman.”

“A good man, then.”

“You think so?”

“Well, I’ve only known you for less than two hours but you saved me from being drugged, so I think you’re alright.”

“Glad to hear it.” Steve peels off Tony’s socks, stuffs them into his sneakers, then removes his boots. He offers to carry both their shoes, but Tony just rolls his eyes and grabs his sneakers from Steve. They walk side by side, barefoot. 

Out from a distance, there’s someone on the guitar playing cover songs of the latest hits, or at least, Steve thinks. He doesn’t listen to much music these days. His mind is occupied by other things, like planning, and Tony, Tony, Tony. He thinks he knows the song though, a tune he used to hear while in the streets of Brooklyn. A feature about a soul with good intentions. _Don’t let me be misunderstood,_ the song goes. 

The mindset is different in New York and Los Angeles. But even then, Koreatown and Venice residents move to different spheres. When he heard of Los Angeles, he thought of Hollywood and all the glimmer and glitter of actors. Koreatown is a working class neighborhood that reminds him of Red Hook. Venice is something else. 

Tony’s close enough that their shoulders almost touch. Despite a couple of bumps, the sand is soft on their feet. The smell of salt and seaweed fill the air when they settle down near the shore. Tony leans on his hands and smiles up at Steve.

“So you’re back from the Army. Why LA? It doesn’t seem like the place you’d go to settle down.”

“I came chasing after a dream.”

“Yeah? You wanna be an actor?”

“No, nothing like that,” Steve takes some sand, closes his fists, and feels it leave his palms. Hold something hard enough, it’s bound to eventually slip away. “It’s stupid, actually. I thought I could come here and find someone to be happy with.”

“Are you not happy alone?”

“Is anyone?”

“That’s relative, I think.” Tony twists, grabbing two airplane bottles of whiskey from his front pocket. “You want one?”

Steve shakes his head. “Are you sure it’s alright to drink?”

“Why not?” Tony smiles, wide with teeth. They’re bright under the moonlight. “Do you really have no vices?” He narrows his eyes on Steve, still somewhat playful. “I don't trust a guy without a dark side.”

“I thought you said I’m a good man.”

“I’m starting to think otherwise,” he twists the cap of the bottle, drowns it in two gulps. 

Steve watches his throat work, grateful that it’s dark and he has his legs bent so Tony can’t see his cock thicken. How he’s thought about this on dark, dreary nights in the desert. Tony Stark as his only salvation. Here he is, in the flesh, sitting beside Steve when he could be with anyone else. It’s a dream come true.

He tries to offer some truth, forcing himself to look at Tony when he says, “I told you, war changes a person,” he reaches for his pocket. “I take xanax to help.”

Tony scoots closer to Steve. Their feet touch in the sand. He takes the other bottle, drinks it, then drops it to the space beside them. “I’ll recycle it later,” he says, when Steve tries to grab liquor bottles and take it to the bin. Tony pulls him down. “So, Captain Rogers is normal and flawed like the rest of us mortals.”

Steve isn’t a good man. Tony’s wrong. Steve is full of wanting. He might do something terrible to get what he wants. He’s always walking that edge of taking what he deserves because he goddamn almost died and sacrificed his life for a country. He finds himself revolted with the thought of not asking for permission. 

The ocean keeps running to the shore, then back out again. Again and again, there’s that push and pull of dropping dead in the shoreline, then rushing back out again. He looks at Tony, anxious. 

“Is it the war? You… do you get flashbacks?” Tony chews on his lower lip, wetting it. Steve wants to trace the curves of his smile with his tongue. 

_No, it’s not that, I want to care for you because you deserve it, you need it, and I need it, too._ He doesn’t say, instead, Steve swallows, looks at the ocean adrift. “I want to be desperately needed. In the Army, I had that. There was the routine of ensuring everyone was alive, cared for. Now, I’m here. I need something else.” Steve sighs, he’s said too much. In the sand, Tony finds his hand and squeezes it. “You’re too trusting.”

“You look like you need comfort. You saved me there, I’m just returning the favor,” Tony looks down at their hands, then removes his fingers. Steve can’t tell from the darkness, but he wonders if Tony is blushing. His movements are soft, laguid due to the alcohol and whatever cocktail of drugs he’s taken inside the beach house. 

“You shouldn’t be like this,” Steve says, firmly. He twists to turn to face Tony. “You shouldn’t allow strangers to take you places. You need to be more careful.”

“Well, if I wanted a lecture, I’d go to my parents’ grave.”

Steve shuts his eyes, he presses a thumb to the space between his eyes, and breathes heavily. “I’m sorry. I’m fucking this up. That’s not what I meant.” He opens his eyes to see Tony’s patient expression. “I mean, what I mean to say, is—” he stutters upon the words. “I’ve read about that, I’m sorry to hear about them. I’ve read about you, too. You seem like a good person, I just… is it alright to have some sort of investment in your well-being?” 

“You barely know me. Is it safe to be so invested?”

“Do you ever really know a person?”

Tony smirks. “Some people would say yes. But that isn’t true. You know characteristics of a person. You were in the Army, I’m sure you know how to profile someone. But to know someone deeply? I’m not sure that’s possible.”

“You’re wrong, you know.” Steve shoves a hand into his pocket, shoves one of the xanax pills into his mouth and swallows. His nerves are all on fire and despite the coolness of the ocean, he’s hot all over. “You know someone when you’re hopeless about them.”

“Doesn’t that say more about you, then?” Tony leans forward, teasing. 

The warm and loose feeling is crawling up his spine and it makes Steve a little braver, a little bolder. “It sounds like you haven’t had many people care about your life, then.”

Tony shakes his head, then there’s that self-deprecating smile. “Can’t say I have. Not as of late,” his eyes are heavy and he’s looking up at Steve with these thick eyelashes. “Could count the number of people who gave a shit in one hand. That’s not counting those who passed. Will you show them how it’s done? You know, since you seem to give a shit about me.”

Tony offers his palm, waiting, like he knew Steve had another pill.

“You sure?” Steve raises an eyebrow, feeling his nerves melt away. He's suddenly feeling euphoric, and it's not because of the pill. “You’ve been drinking. And you just did lines.”

“I’ll be fine,” Tony’s eyelids are heavy and he's slurring, and he's so gorgeous with these large eyes and the attempt at a goatee. Steve fingers his whiskery mustache. “You’ll take care of me, won’t you? You said you’re a good man.”

“I never said that I was good,” Steve whispers, giving into the urge to push Tony’s hair back. “You did. But yes, I’ll take care of you.”

Tony leans his cheeks on Steve’s hand. “Prove me right, then.”

“You’re a dangerous man, Tony Stark.”

“I could say the same about you.” Steve offers the pill between two fingers. Tony leans over, takes the pill between his lips, kissing Steve’s index finger in the process. He’s smiling so wide and it hurts because Steve is making him happy, and god, that’s all he’s ever wanted since he was shot in the desert. He woke up in the medical tent with only one thought in mind: _Tony, Tony, Tony._

Tony has the white pill between his teeth and he’s grinning with his gums. So Steve does what he’s wanted to do for ages, he twists and presses their lips together. He feels Tony swallow the pill, dry, no liquid to wash it down, but it doesn’t matter because his mouth is opening and they are exchanging spit. Steve leans further in, chasing Tony’s lips and urging him to his back. 

“You feel so good,” Steve says, getting in between Tony’s legs. He kisses Tony’s jaw line, slow, soft, almost delicate. Tony grinds up on him with closed eyes. The movement is unhurried and slightly sloppy. Both his hands are on the sand. 

“Xan is so good, good,” Tony hums, a smile on his face.

His quick drop is expected, even with the lower dose. 

Steve kisses his mouth and they make out for a little bit. Tony’s mouth takes like vodka and cigarettes, but Steve doesn’t mind. Not when he finally has Tony. His tongue is soft and he nibbles onto Steve’s bottom lip. When Steve rocks their erections, Tony’s groans are stifled. 

Tony paws at his chest, he pushes a little bit, so Steve leans back to catch his wrists. “You want this right?”

Tony drops his head to the side, slurs something, and Steve considers it means yes, because Tony was just kissing him and urging their hips together. 

Steve remembers the time where he’d fantasize about Tony under him. When he’d mentally replace Stone on the VHS tape with himself.

He runs a hand over Tony’s hair, caresses his face, smoothing the lines on the corner of his eyes. “Ssst—”

Steve smiles, trails open mouthed kisses down Tony’s neck. “Tony, you’re so perfect. Like a dream. A goddamn dream.”

“Sttt—” Tony’s writhing against him, trying to sit up.

Steve gently presses at his shoulder. “I’ll take care of you. You need someone to care for you.” He lowers Tony’s wrists back to the hand, then rubs at his arms, up and down. “You have nothing to worry about now, darling.” Steve kisses him again, taking his time to skate his fingers on Tony’s ribs then down his torso.

“Wait, stt—”

“Say no, if you want,” Steve pauses, watching Tony’s glassy eyes. His lips are slick with saliva. The sky is dark, but the lights from the pier dance shadows on his face. “You’re so gorgeous. Say no, tell me no.”

Tony mumbles something, keeping his hands to the floor. He’s no longer grinding against Steve, so Steve works harder, twisting his hips, making circles to draw out a moan. 

Steve’s body is pliant, and he can’t hear the ocean or the sound of the guitarist further into the boardwalk. Tony is pawing his hair now, tugging it, so Steve drops down, kisses his chest, and unbutton’s Tony’s jeans. He unfasts his own, not even bothering to put his pants down his thighs. He lets his cock and balls hang against his boxers, then works Tony’s zipper down. 

“Can I, please?” Steve fists the base of his cock, trying to stop himself from coming too quick. God, he wishes for a bed. Next time, he promises himself, next time they’ll use a bed and he’ll open Tony up for hours before showing him how loved he is. 

Tony peers up at him with an open mouth. Steve is compelled to bend down and suck on his lips. Steve lets go of his cock, dropping both arms to frame Tony’s face. Their cocks touch and he rocks back and forth, hiding his face on Tony’s neck.

“St—” 

Steve feels warmth at Tony attempting to call out his name.

“Yes, you feel amazing, Tony.” Steve whispers, sucking on the space under his ear. He brings a hand up and spits, twice, then wraps a hand around both of their dicks. Steve fists them both. There’s not enough spit, but it’s alright. He leans back, catching Tony’s face. He’s breathing heavily. He must be enjoying himself. Yes, good, Steve wants Tony to have a good time.

Steve shifts back, pulls Tony’s shirt up, exposing his flat stomach. He kisses the valleys and grooves there, circling his belly button, before inching his way down to Tony’s half-hard cock. Steve smiles. Tony is groaning and trying to sit up again. He trails down Tony’s abdomen, licking his lips then runs his tongue over Tony’s shaft. His dick is throbbing, but he ignores it, focusing instead on getting Tony harder. Steve licks up and down, circling his thumb and index finger to jerk the length before sucking on the head. He groans, willing to take Tony in deeper.

“Just relax, I have you, I’ll take care of you, sweetheart.” Steve says, pushing Tony's chest back to the floor. He scratches at Tony's pubes, enjoying the feeling of it against his chest. Soon, Tony’s attempts to call out Steve’s name stops, but he’s still writhing, fingers flexing on the sand.

Steve pulls off only to straddle Tony’s face. Tony’s looking up at him with wide eyes, bright under the night light. There’s a moment he’s shocked, and then tilts back, head going side to side, slurring again. Steve presses the head of his cock on Tony’s lips, then shifts back down to splay between Tony’s legs. He doesn’t want to choke Tony, not tonight, when their movements are heavy, bodies filled with drugs. Steve brings their cocks together once more and jerks them off until they both come.

Steve drops his head on Tony’s chest, groaning, rubbing his sticky fingers on Tony’s still hard cock. He takes their come between two fingers and rubs them on Tony’s lips, slowly thrusting his fingers inside Tony’s mouth. Once Steve is satisfied, he kisses, marveled at the taste of their mixed come. 

He doesn’t know how long they stay there, but their breaths settle. Steve presses his ears on Tony’s chest and listens to Tony’s heartbeat. “Thank you,” he says, grabbing Tony’s wrist and kissing it. When Steve finally raises his head, Tony is asleep and his eyes are wet, possibly from the force of his orgasm. 

It’s getting cooler. He shifts to the side, sits up, and tucks Tony’s spent dick inside his pants. With nothing to clean them up, Steve grimaces and wipes his hands on the inside of his t-shirt. Tony is still asleep, even with all the proding, so Steve hoists him up in a bridal carry and makes the short walk back to his car.

Some people on the streets eye them, but don’t say anything, too busy with their own lives. Steve cradles Tony’s head, making sure to press Tony’s face into his chest to ensure no one recognizes him. Steve doesn’t want to read about Tony’s wild partying in the gossip rags. 

With one hand, he opens the door, deposits Tony inside, and gets into the passenger seat.

“What’s goin’ on?” Tony looks down at the seat belt as Steve buckles his own.

“I’ll take you home.” Steve pats Tony’s pocket and grabs his wallet. He fishes Tony’s ID to get his address.

Tony stares at him for a moment, but he soon falls back asleep, head pressed against the belt. Steve smiles, fond, then shifts him so that Tony’s more comfortable. 

He gets the directions to Malibu from someone in the parking lot and takes the freeway until he exits to a long-winding street. From the distance, there’s the Stark Mansion, he’s read about in several spreads. Home. Maybe.

Steve parks at the entrance, hoping Tony won’t mind, fetches Tony’s keys from his pocket and carries him inside. Steve has no idea where he’s going. He lets his feet take him into the foyer, then the stairs, then settles on the first bedroom he finds. It’s uncluttered, modern in design and fully furnished. He doubts this is where Tony actually sleeps at night. But Steve is too spent from the evening. He drops Tony on the bed, takes off his clothes, and tucks him under the covers. He fetches a towel from the ensuite bathroom and wipes the stickiness of Tony’s body down. With slow movements, Steve undresses and puts their spoiled clothes on the love seat in the corner of the room. 

He raises the comforter, hugs Tony’s chest, and goes to sleep to the sound of the ocean rippling outside.

* * *

In the morning, Tony wakes up with a hangover. He’s naked in the guest room on the second floor. “Fuck,” he massages his temples and lies back down on the bed. He has a blistering headache that starts at the base of his skull and wraps around both of his eyes. 

When Ty offered lines, Tony thought, fuck it, it's a regular Thursday night. He clears his throat. His mouth has the faint taste of bile and something bitter. He really should stop smoking and blow like he's chasing some lost love. Tony supposes that's the thing, isn't it? Running after the high so he can stop thinking so goddamn much. His brain is never quiet. He can have a conversation with three people and be doing equations and inventing something at the same time. 

Coke gives him clarity and it's pretty fucking amazing in the first half-hour, but then, as the night wears on, he's snorting another on someone's stomach or fingernail, and it's a harder chase. He wakes up on the floor to a random house or by the beach. Sometimes, he'll be home with Ty snoring beside him. He doesn't fucking know what he's doing, but sometimes, the buzz slows him down, just like smoking gives him something to do with his hands. Otherwise, he'd be twisting them. Maybe, there should be a healthier way to deal with life. Shit, the pressure of being Stark Industries new face, serving as CEO, and trying to do right by the world. Fuck. Tony puts the end of his palms and presses his eyes. 

His memory is usually fuzzy the night after, especially if he goes through a binge. But last night was a light evening. He did lines, had some alcohol, and then Ty and Sunset were dancing beside him. They prodded him into joining them for a swim at the deck, but he didn’t want to set his clothes down. Last time he did that, someone stole his clothes and watch and he had to sit naked in the only cab that would take him. 

Tony blinks his eyes open, turning on the bed to find a glass of water. He’s been called a futurist, but Tony doesn’t have that much foresight to prepare a glass of water for himself after a night of partying. The water is cool, the glass has condensation. He doesn’t remember bringing anyone home. He doesn’t remember much. His head still feels like it's filled with cotton and his body is heavy. Sitting up, he drinks the water in slow, measured gulps. Tony presses the cool glass to his forehead, hoping it would alleviate his headache. 

He definitely took someone home right now. 

Victor Von Doom made an appearance at the party last night. The tool questioned him about the latest Stark line of green energy, scoping out competition. Then, the music was too loud but Tony loved drowning his thoughts in the sound of screaming, laughter, and the bass. It helped keep his thoughts away. Fuck, he mixed alcohol, cocaine, and there was something else. There’s flashes of a man barging into his conversation with Doom, warning him that Doom put something into the drink.

Tony’s belly heats up in anger, fucking Victor tried to make a move on him. Fuck, he could have been date raped or tortured or ended up in a ditch somewhere. He doubted Doom had the balls to do anything so asinine, he would have probably just made Tony talk about Stark Tech. 

This someone was righteous. Had a stubborn jaw, but a nervous undercut to his seemingly confident stature. Captain. Someone in the military who looked out of place. Steve, who moved to LA to find something—someone. Tony recalls this Steve guy saying _I want to be needed,_ and well, isn’t funny that Tony measures his worth in the same way. They were under the moonlight and they had a good conversation, one that was genuine and for once, it wasn’t about the brand name _Tony Stark._

It’s likely that Steve already left, there’s no reason to stay. Tony rises from bed, finds his clothes from last night, and drops them back on the sofa. He grabs the comforter, wrapping it around his body. Barefoot, he pads out to the hallway and into the second floor. There’s the distinct smell of bacon and pasta water. Moving slow, he walks to the kitchen to find a figure with broad shoulders, trim waist, and a straight back. It’s not, Ty. 

_Steve?_ He’s plating the pasta and humming a tune.

Belatedly, Tony remembers that his man served in the Army, so he announces himself. “Hey, Steve right?” 

The man turns, a sheepishly smile on his face. God, there’s still sleepiness in his eyes and it’s obvious he hasn’t showered, wearing his clothes from the night before.

“Tony,” he says, voice relieved. Like waking up Tony Stark isn’t a mistake, but a dream. Tony thinks Steve said something about dreams last night. “Good morning. How are you feeling?”

Tony feels wrong footed in his own home. He’s standing naked in his kitchen with a blanket covering his bits. Then, there’s this handsome man, _Captain Rogers,_ his mind supplies, who blushes like it’s still the 1940s and who’s made him breakfast. 

“Did we—? Nevermind, actually don’t answer that.” Tony shakes his head and plasters a smile on his face. It wouldn’t do well to ask this man if they fucked last night. No, he couldn’t remember much last night, but he can vividly recall his judgement on Steve. _A good man._ He worried about Tony, wanted to sit Tony down and check if he was alright after the fiasco with Doom. 

Steve stood awkwardly on the sidewalk, hands in his pocket, then, they were sitting by the shoreline, side by side. Steve looked anxious and confessed some blurry things about the war. Tony doesn’t know, he thought Steve was nice and helpful. A goddamn Captain.

 _Is it alright to have some sort of investment in your well-being?_ Tony pictures his pout and the way he played with the sand. Leaning forward...then nothing. There’s a hazy image of Steve looming over him, but that’s likely when he carried Tony off to his car.

“I, uh, found your address from your wallet and took you home. I wanted to make sure you’d be alright in the middle of night, so I stayed....I’m sorry, I should have asked, but you were passed out, and I didn’t want to leave you...I couldn’t find you a change of clothes,” Steve rubs the back of his neck, blushing. “And well, your clothes were spoiled, so I figured...well, it’s nothing I haven’t seen.”

Tony’s mind whirls. There’s that distorted image of Steve pushing his hair back and saying _I’ll take care of you,_ nevermind that Tony’s a stranger he met at a party. He swallows, eyeing Steve up and down. “Being in the Army and all, right?”

Steve licks his lips and raises the mug. “I made coffee,” then, he points to the plate of food, organized in those floral plates Tony doesn’t use. “And, I thought you might want something to eat? You mentioned something about spaghetti yesterday and...and you had the ingredients for a carbonara.” Steve looks away for a beat, then stares at Tony, determined. God, he’ll be weak for this man. “I was going to bring it to you.”

“Breakfast in bed?” Tony smiles. His head still hurts and his mouth had that foul taste after drinking so much. “I could get used to this,” he adds, because, well, he’s always been reckless.

Steve smiles, a small curl of the lips but it’s blinding and he carried Tony to bed last night, tucked him in, and has now made him breakfast. Is this what it means to be treated well? He hops from foot to foot, watching as Steve sets the plates and steaming coffee on a tray, smiling all the while. 

Tony’s judgement in people is right for once.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, kudos and comments are much appreciated! Be sure to check out the Anti-Soulmate Kinktober 2020 collection if you're interested in more dark, angst, and trope subversion fics!
> 
> I am on  Tumblr and on discord as resurrectedhippo#8509.  
>   
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